


Her Highness

by knees_of_bees



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Exhibitionism, F/F, First Time, Masterbation, Mutual Masturbation, Public Masturbation, Royalty, Smut, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:53:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28499364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knees_of_bees/pseuds/knees_of_bees
Summary: “Have you ever… felt yourself?”Hermione’s thick, black eyebrows moved toward each other minutely as she cautiously replied “In what manner do you mean?”“The way a lover might hold you,” said the princess simply, turning her head to face her Lady in Waiting. “Just to see what it might feel like. A hand on your breast, perhaps your waist, wandering…”Hermione watched in mildly horrified fascination as the princess’ right hand moved across the fabric of her own skirt, rustling the many layers and sliding ever so slightly down, down…
Relationships: Fleur Delacour & Hermione Granger, Fleur Delacour/Hermione Granger, Hermione Granger/Pansy Parkinson
Comments: 25
Kudos: 98





	1. Her Highness has Wandering Hands

**Author's Note:**

> oh boy, this is a bit spicier than I usually get! I would like to note that though I see Hermione as strong and hotheaded, her characterization in this story begins naïvely. she's had the hagiarchy of royalty ingrained into her from birth, but fear not: our gal will get some fun character development down the line. aight, enjoy!

“Hermione?”

The name slipped from the princess’ lips in an inquiring tone. She swung her feet, which were laced in delicate white heels and flung over the arm of her elegant chair. The movement was light but calculated.

“Yes?” The Lady in Waiting quickly snapped shut the pamphlet she had been reading, something about which fabrics were best in which colors ― nothing too intellectual for a woman of her caliber.

“Have you ever… felt yourself?”

Hermione’s thick, black eyebrows moved toward each other minutely as she cautiously replied “In what manner do you mean?”

“The way a lover might hold you,” said the princess simply, turning her head to face the lady. “Just to see what it might feel like. A hand on your breast, perhaps your waist, wandering…”

Hermione watched in mildly horrified fascination as princess Pansy’s right hand moved across the fabric of her own skirt, rustling the many layers and sliding ever so slightly down, down… and suddenly that hand was at her face, smoothing back a piece of hair as if it had never been anywhere else. Her waves were black, though they had an auburn glow in the haze of light pouring gently from the tall window behind her.

“I can’t, I, well―”

Pansy planted her hands on her knees and leaned forward, and her face was that of a friend, that of a royal to whom Hermione owed her loyalty.

“Oh, do tell me,” she was saying sweetly. “You are the closest person to me and I shan't be pleased if we are to keep anything from one another.”

“Well, I suppose I have, a bit, on occasion,” Hermione admitted, heat rising in her cheeks.

The princess sighed and collapsed back into her seat. “Thank goodness I am not the only one.”

“No, not at all! I have certainly… felt myself before and there is nothing wrong with your highness engaging in such an activity.”

“How do you do it?” asked the princess.

“What?”

“Of course, so silly of me to ask such a personal question like that. Privacy is important, even yours.”

The tension in Hermione’s body released. But it began to build once more as she watched Pansy stand, walk gracefully to the window, draw the heavy, gold-embroidered drapes, glide toward the door, and click the lock into place. The sound echoed in a muffled way through the magnificently carpeted room.

The princess walked past her Lady in Waiting who sat frozen on a cloth-covered bench, and returned to her ornate chair.

“Now. How do you do it?”

Hermione’s mouth was dry.

“I am rather inexperienced,” added the princess in response to the silence, “and I would so like to know what methods you’ve employed. Do explain your technique.”

This was entirely untrue. The princess was, in fact, quite experienced. When one has hours to waste upon entertaining oneself, one gets creative. However, this self-indulgence can only be entertaining for so long before one gets bored. So princess Pansy, apt at using her authority and cunning when necessary, decided to involve another in her exploration. Hermione, with her black coils pulled back in the utmost conformist manner, with her willingness to please and the respect for authority that had been ingrained into her, was almost too easy, but there was something about the curve of her neck and the softness of her skin that urged Pansy to try anyway.

Hermione, of course, knew none of this. She knew only that her princess had asked something of her and despite her better judgement, she felt compelled to give it.

“I can’t say I have a technique,” she found herself whispering.

“Dear me, I have put you on the spot. I suppose I shall go first. That will make it easier, won’t it?”

Hermione nodded, wide-eyed and unsure.

Smiling gently, and feigning a bit of embarrassment, Pansy closed her eyes. She took a breath in and her bosom lifted. The breath came out in a soft sigh.

“I often begin at my collarbone. I’ll run my fingers across it, ever so lightly, just enough that it tingles.”

Hermione swallowed. The princess had not moved, and neither had she, and yet she felt a faint tingling sensation on her own collarbone.

“Sometimes I move from there to the neck. A delicate thing, one’s neck. Graze it softly, and mmm, the sensations… but press too hard and you will _choke_ yourself.” The princess lurched forward at this and Hermione inhaled sharply. “The things our bodies are capable of feeling.” The statement, uttered by the princess, was one of wonder, but her tone suggested something sultry.

“I suppose I then like to slide my hands down toward my breasts. The lace there,” it almost seemed as though the princess was eyeing Hermione’s own lacy neckline, “seems so… unnecessary. I’ll unlace the dress,” her voice got quieter, “string, by string, by string, until it slides down over gentle curves. Oh, how it feels to have fingers trail across them, hands cup them, nipples hardening, fingernails scraping, gently squeezing, massaging…”

Hermione found it difficult to focus on the princess’ words through her own rapid breathing. She could feel her nipples against her constricting bodice. They ached with tension and she had to remind herself of her location to keep from reaching up. Desperate to distract from that tempting thought, she concentrated once more on the princess, which immediately proved a mistake.

“...wet,” she was saying, “and warm. And soon it is not enough to squeeze my legs together, and I find myself spread―”

“Princess Pansy!”

The princess paused. She eyed her interrupter. “Yes?”

“Don’t you think this a bit…” the lady’s voice came out in a raspy whisper, “scandalous?” She cursed herself internally for questioning her highness, but it had to be done, as things had gotten much too―” 

“Yes. I suppose so. Sorry to disturb you, Hermione.”

And just like that, it was over. The princess turned slightly in her chair and adjusted her skirts, looking off toward the window.

Hermione blinked a couple times. She gingerly picked up her forgotten pamphlet. She opened it, flipping a couple of the starchy pages. 

Silk was quite divine in blues. Deeper blues, especially. The lady tried to direct all of her energy toward these cool thoughts and away from the pulsing in her body, but the pulsing did not stop. Even as they sat there in silence for the rest of the afternoon, lace tickled her skin and warmth blossomed beneath.


	2. You're On My Mind

Hermione tugged at the hem of her nightgown beneath the heavy comforter, pulling it up along her thighs as she stared into the darkness.

They hadn’t spoken of the incident, instead carrying on as normal, but it didn’t _feel_ normal. Not when she brushed the princess’ hair and her lungs filled with the scent of her soap, not when she laced the princess’ corset with hands on her waist, not when they locked eyes only for Hermione to avert her gaze, a flush flooding her face and chest. 

She slipped a hand downward, knuckles grazing her stomach, and found the soft cotton of her undergarments. She pressed.

Never had she gone further than this, pressing, rubbing, feeling over thin fabric, guilt curling around her insides until her hand eventually darted back up above the duvet. But the princess spoke so freely of her own body, and now, lying cloaked in the darkness of her own bedchamber, Hermione felt compelled to slip her fingers beneath the cotton.

A shudder ran up her spine. Each new area sent a wave of warmth through her. Her free hand clutched the blankets as she explored, the princess’ delicate yet sharp features in the forefront of her mind.


	3. Fine Dining

The table was laid with a delicate assortment of breads and cheeses, and Hermione’s face was nearing the same pale hue, for she was rarely called to dine with those above her social status. Each movement she made was light, each laugh practiced, in hopes that she might impress her present company or, at the very least, not miserably embarrass herself.

It was only by the princess’ special request that she was there at all. “Oh please,” Pansy had begged of the duke and duchess with whom she ordinarily dined, “I’ve been ever so faint as of late, and my lady in waiting’s presence is rejuvenating, you see.” They obliged, as Hermione dreaded they would. She had yet to see a single soul say no to the that pretty face.

Hermione glanced upon it from across the table, searching for cues as to why she might be present and what might be expected of her, but the princess merely laughed and talked and ate as if nothing were awry. So she followed suit, reacting to the stories of other royals without interjecting.

A flicker of movement caught the Lady’s eye.

She told herself it was nothing, but the princess did it again, tracing the line of her collarbone with slender fingers.

Her mind spun back to the incident in the princess’ bedchamber when hands wandered across her chest and down her body, and Hermione’s heart stuttered. Of course, it was most certainly no more than shameful paranoia.

She did it again.

Pansy’s other arm was beneath the table and it moved slightly as her facial features changed, relaxing, breath shuddering, brow tensing.

Hermione scanned the length of the table but no one else seemed to notice. They carried on with their conversations, lifting glasses with dainty fingers and passing serving dishes with underworked hands. Looking back to the princess, she watched her bite her lip. Her own hand flew instinctually across her leg.

This couldn’t be happening, surely it couldn’t, for they were in public and no one would do such a thing in public. But if she had already indulged in such indecencies in her Lady’s presence, was this not the next step?

The princess drew another shuddering breath and the man next to her turned.

“Are you alright, your highness?” he asked.

She smiled, hand slipping back above the table. “Quite.”

Hermione sighed in relief, shifting her legs uncomfortably and picking her fork back up. But all too soon, that hand disappeared once more beneath the tablecloth. The princess’ movements were scarce but she saw them: shoulders rolling, head tipping back just slightly. Pansy’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and when she opened them, she was looking at Hermione.

She held eye contact as her bosom rose and fell, rose and fell, pace quickening, eyelids heavy. Hermione swallowed tightly, unable to tear her eyes away. When she was sure she could handle it no longer, thighs pressed tight together and breath caught in her throat, a sigh escaped the princess’ mouth and she relaxed.

Hermione watched in horror as the man turned to her once more and asked if she was well, only for Pansy to reassure him sweetly and resume spreading honey on her bread.

“I need to be excused,” mumbled Hermione, pushing her chair back, fork clattering to the table. A woman scoffed at her rudeness but she cared not, intent only on escaping. As she hurried to the washroom, she felt the princess’ eyes on her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >:) another chapter. I plan to keep this train movin’, but in the meantime, feedback means SO much. love u.


	4. In the Washroom

Hermione’s hands hit the counter and she panted at her reflection, condensation collecting on the ornately framed mirror. 

She tried to take solace in the familiarity of her countenance, pores and brows and full lips, but the dampness of her skin revealed how unsettled she was by the whole affair. The princess had… had _touched_ herself, in _public_. It was horrifically indecent. And yet heat roiled in her gut, warmth coiled between her legs.

The door creaked open. She rose quickly, straightening her skirts and wiping a hand across her forehead. 

“Hermione?” came a familiar voice.

“Your highness?”

Pansy entered the room, shutting the door behind her and offering a small smile. “I do hope you can forgive me.”

Nervousness fluttered coldly across her skin, but she bowed slightly and reassured the princess, saying “Of course, your highness, there is nothing to forgive.”

“Pray, be silent, there’s no need to be so amiable about such matters for I can see plainly that I have been in the wrong.”

Hermione swallowed and merely looked at her; soft black waves in the dim, warm light and eyes which so easily drew trust from those they fixed on.

“Is there no way I can make it up to you?” the princess asked.

“That is not necessary.”

“Nonsense. I want to atone for my actions.” Pansy stepped toward her, reaching up to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. “What do you want? Anything.”

She breathed the word in such a way that it drew Hermione’s gaze to her lips. They were slightly parted, soft. Not painted with makeup but filled with an uneven flush.

Warm air brushed lightly against Hermione’s own mouth. It grazed her neck, leaving a desperate tingling sensation behind every time the princess inhaled, only to be warmed and awoken once more come exhale.

The Lady in Waiting could feel herself tilting forward as if gravity had been skewed. This was not her place. This was not her place. This was not her place.  
Their noses touched. Hermione rubbed hers gently against Pansy’s and that was seemingly all the princess needed for then their mouths met.

Warm and wet and filled with yearning and movement, it was more divine than she could have hoped for, and then there were hands on her bodice. She lifted her own hands up past Pansy’s chest and placed her fingers on her collarbones and though she intended to stroke the skin there but dug her nails in instead, and Pansy, who responded by groaning into her mouth and stroking her torso, didn’t seem to mind.

“Your highness.” It came out rougher than Hermione knew she was capable of. She tried again. “Your highness!” The end became a squeak as princess Pansy bit her upper lip. “This is not— We should not—“ she tried, though every nerve in her body fought the words.

“You’re right,” agreed the princess, stepping back. Cold air flooded the space between them and regret sliced through Hermione’s gut. “In the washroom,” Pansy was saying, “how silly of us.”

“Yes.” Her chest was caving in.

“You will come to my bedchambers. Tonight.”

“What?”

“And bring us some dessert from the kitchens. I do get peckish when I exhaust myself.”

Hermione’s mouth hung open. Surely this was a fabricated farce or some humiliating scheme, but the glimmer in her princess’ eyes and the warmth that coursed through her body didn’t care for the doubt in her mind, so she nodded. Pansy hummed in approval and slipped out of the room. 

Hermione turned back to she mirror, hands smoothing the frizz in her hair and the wrinkles in her gown, and stared wide eyed at her flushed reflection.

**Author's Note:**

> I do love feedback 👀 sending good vibes ur way


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